BETWEEN A ROCK AND A HARD PLACE

hesitate to write this story for a couple of reasons. Firstly, I'm not particularly proud of everything I have done in my life, and this story certainly falls in that category, and secondly, it's not an especially tasteful story. You see, I try very hard to present a persona in my writing that fools the reader into thinking what I want them to think. For example; I want you to think that I have a brain, but as this story will example, that is not always the case. However, in my defense, I will add that this event occurred many years ago and hopefully my IQ has since improved.

I was in my late 20's, and like every young man of that age, I was, how should I put this ... Okay, I'll just quote my father. I was "Young, dumb and full of come". The twenties for a man is an exciting time. We awake every morning with our soldier at stiff attention, lovemaking is at its best, and we are entirely invincible. My young wife was in constant awe of my greatness and my general "I shall rule the world" attitude, so she had every reason to think that I would be a good husband, an decent father and a strong provider for her. She trusted me and my decisions without question. I'm telling you this because I do not wish for this saga to reflect poorly upon her.

Somehow, and please don't ask me how because to this day I am not sure what I was thinking, I came up with the brilliant idea that I should make a plaster representation of my manhood at its best. Okay, let's cut the crap. I wanted to make a life-sized statue of my "rooster". My wife, being young and impressionable, reluctantly agreed to assist me in this endeavor. In my mind I was about to create something of great historic value, not unlike the statue of David or the Venus De Milo, and that it would forever stand as a bold historical representation of "John the Great" of the 20th Century.

I hurriedly went to an arts and crafts store and bought five pounds of Plaster of Paris, (yes, I thought a lot of myself), and rushed home to create the next great monolith of modern of art. I envisioned the finished product being displayed in the Musee du Louvre in Paris France, or at least in the Museum of Fine Arts in San Francisco (although that option made me feel a bit uneasy).

My wife and I ripped open the container and hurriedly made the plaster mixture in one of her best stewing pots and went to work. To keep this as clean as possible I will just say that my wife helped me prepare for the sculpture, and when I was at my best I sat on the edge of the bathtub and she applied the plaster abundantly on my purple headed yogurt slinger, being thorough and applying it from just below my navel to the crack of my derriere.

We then read the instructions and shared a glass of California Red as we waited the 20 minutes for the plaster to cure to its maximum density. Roughly that of a marble headstone. Now, The object was to simply slide my Moisture and Heat Seeking Venomous Python of Love out of the plaster contraption, then pour vegetable oil in the cast, refill it with plaster, wait, lather, rinse and repeat, and then extract the wondrous work of art. Sounds simple. Eh? The problem was when I attempted to extract Big Ed the Scream Machine, he would not budge.

I really must warn you that the descriptions from this point on are somewhat graphic in nature, and much like the Space Mountain ride at Disneyland, it is not safe for persons that are, or may become pregnant, persons with heart problems or those who suffer unusually high gag reflex. I will supply you with this picture to look at as you ponder whether or not you wish to continue.



Shall we continue? Think "YES" or "NO" and respond accordingly.

Okay. In our zeal to create this modern art masterpiece it seems that we had not thought the process through thoroughly. While attempting to extract my love truncheon I discovered the first of many problems. The plaster, which as I said, traveled up my hind quarters, and in effect had made an irremovable plaster chastity device unrivaled by Medieval design. I yelled the only thing I could at that moment of realization. "Mommy!!!!!!"



It was decided that I would need some tools from the trunk of the car so I sent my wife out to the parking lot to retrieve a pair of Robo-Grip pliers. When she returned I bent gently forward and she began trying to pry the rock-hard plaster down and away from my bum. It was very painful but after several minutes I heard a loud "crrraaaaackkk" and a piece roughly the size of a dime fell to the floor with a gentle "tink"

I have to hand it to my wife, she stayed with it, piece by painful piece, until I was once again at least able to cop a squat and fire a dog-rocket, should the need arise. So, that ordeal over, I attempted again to extract my Man Pickle from its plaster sarcophagus.

Problem number two became painfully obvious immediately. That's right, The family orbs were also trapped securely in the plaster. Now, for those of you who do not fully understand the level of pain the twins can effect on a man, just think of it this way. Rather than take a kick in the McNuggets I would gladly prefer to let a Boeing 747 run over my kosher dill during landing. These guys must be protected at all times and at any cost!


We pondered our options for a few minutes as I chugged about a half gallon of California Red and hung my head in shameful defeat. My wife suggested using a nutcracker. Not an option, if for no other reason because of its name. A crowbar? Get real. Go to the hospital? Oh Hell No! I wasn't going to end up in some medical journal as an example of the second dumbest medical emergency in the history of man. (Second only to this guy with a light bulb up his butt)

(Note: I try to be open minded about this Xray. Perhaps his butt just had a great idea!)

ANYWAYS... So, after long contemplation we decided that maybe, just maybe, it was the fact that all my manly hair was simply entangled in the plaster, and that through careful scissor snipping I just might be able to free myself from the horrible pickle and pecan hijacker. Carefully I slipped the scissors down from the naval area and started making gentle snips at my fur. So far so good. But the time came to snip from behind and I was unable to reach into the tomb and snip around my walnuts myself. I vaguely remembered that my wife once told me she had flunked the Home Economics class on sewing, seems a tube top was too challenging for her, but I forced that thought aside and handed her the scissors.

I assumed the moon-river position over the edge of the tub, giving her an unprecedented front row view of my anus-orifice and gritted my teeth. I jumped nervously as she slid the sharp points of the scissors down into the cast and she made the first snip.

OH MOTHER OF HOLY GOD SHES NEUTERED ME! I thought as she gave a healthy snip to my duffel bag. I leapt forward, banging my face against the heavy porcelain tub, promptly bloodying my nose and chipping one of my front teeth. After a few moments of crying like little Polly Pink Panties I took a tentative look back at my wife. The scissors she was holding had a rich-red drip of blood, my blood, running down the blades and over her fingers. "YOU'VE KILLED ME!" I screamed.

It took several minutes for either of us to calm down. My wife got a Hefty bag from the kitchen and laid it across the seat cushion of my easy chair and gently helped me to sit down on it. We both sat in silence for several minutes as thoughts of singing soprano in a barbershop quartet raced through my mind. I also took a moment to consider if I had any interest in sex reassignment. I could easily hop a plane and be at John Hopkins University Hospital in Baltimore in under 8 hours. I could start a whole new life. Guys would ogle over my chest all the time and I would never have to pay for another drink in a bar the rest of my life.

The mind plays tricks. You must play tricks back.

ANYWAY... Two hours had passed and we were no closer to a solution. By now the excitement had entirely diminished and Big Ed had shriveled up to the size of a single-celled amoeba. I tried to use my brain, I really did, but times of extreme stress can cause a man certain madness. Finally, I said as calmly, and in as masculine a voice as I could muster; "Go get my hammer". My wife complied without uttering a sound. This was not the time to argue with a man.

A few minutes later found me on my knees, the plaster captive device laying on the edge of the bathtub, and me doing a gentle "tap-tap" at various strategic points. After what seemed like about thirty-seven days, my gentle tap-taps had accelerated to "knock-knocks", and then to "wham-whams", and finally to "BANG-BANGs". At one point I thought I might be making some headway as a piece of something white fell into the tub. I picked it up only to realize that I was now chipping away the porcelain on the tub edge.

"Goddamnit! There goes our security deposit!"

At this point I was more desperate than I could ever recall. There were times in Vietnam that couldn't rival this desperation. I hobbled, pants down around my ankles, to the window and peered out onto the front patio. It was a typical Californian ground-floor apartment patio with a wooden fence on three sides, and a cheap Coleman charcoal grill, but it did have something that I needed. A heavy concrete cinder-block that I could use as an anvil. Even though a quick vision of Wile E. Coyote did flash through my mind, in my desperation I decided what had to be done.


I sent my wife outside to do a quick recon of the neighbors and she reported back that only old Mrs. Wilcox from across the court was out there snipping at her flowers and everyone knew the old gal couldn't see for shit, bless her heart. Besides, I had my three-sided privacy fence so I decided to go for it. With 3 lb. hammer in hand I shuffled hurriedly out the door and lowered myself onto my knees and placed the plaster phallus atop the cinder-block. My wife offered to do the deed but I simply gave a growl not unlike a rabid ferret and she took her post as sentry at the opening of the fence. A "lookout post" if you will.

I said a silent prayer and did that Catholic cross-thingy on my chest even though I'm neither Catholic nor a baseball player, and I raised the hammer high above my head. I squinted my eyes and swung as hard as I could. My right toe was now bleeding like Jebus on the cross and the blood trailed away under the fence and onto the common sidewalk. I yelled some things that I'm not even sure how to spell here, so I will fore-go any descriptive of that verbal bellowing. It suffices to say that even a Merchant Marine with severe Tourette's Syndrome could not have outdone my string of profanity. I looked back at my wife and she nodded anxiously for me to get it over with, and I summoned up the courage to try again, sans closed eyes. I'm not joking, a full fifty swings later I was just beginning to crack the white wiener wrangler open. I wiped the sweat from my brow with a bloody hand and prepared for another assault when just then I heard a little girl's voice say "Mommy, what is that man doing?"

I looked up to see my upstairs neighbor's wife and their five year old daughter looking over the balcony at what must still haunt the little girl even to this day. Let's face it. If you live a thousand years, one of the things you'll probably never see is a guy on his knees swinging a three-pound hammer at his albino cave dweller as it lay sacrificially upon a concrete altar.

It just never happens !

I decided to hurry up and get it done, unfortunately what old Mrs. Wilcox lacked in sight, she more than made up in hearing. She had called the police only moments after I whacked my toe. My wife said "John .... JOHN!", and just as I turned to answer her, two of California's finest entered the patio. The older one crossed his arms and looked me in the eye with a puzzled "WTF?" look, while the younger one covered his mouth and laughed so hard that snot shot out of his nostrils. Once the younger cop composed himself he asked the older cop if he should "call it in". The more experienced cop just shook his head "no" and turned his attention back to me. By now my wife had high-tailed it back into the apartment and was gurgling down the last liter or so of the Red Napa-Juice. I guess she figured if she was going to jail, she might as well go good and sedated.

"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to go indoors to finish that... whatever the hell it is you think you're doing..."

I felt a slight moment of relief and pulled myself up onto my feet and turned around, only to notice that nearly every balcony in the apartment complex was filled with rubbernecking, and in many cases, gasping women and children and several men shaking their heads as if to say "what a dumbass!" I guess if you're a cop in the San Francisco Bay Area, and given enough time, you will have pretty much seen it all.

I raised my chin proudly, dropped the hammer onto the top of the cinder-block, and with pants around ankles, shuffled the eight hundred and seventy-five baby steps back into the apartment. I gave a nod and a polite "thank you" to the elder officer and shut the door and turned the knob lock, and the deadbolt, and put the chain on, and pushed the refrigerator against it.

After all the rubberneckers had all finished discussing what they had seen and finally returned to their apartments, my wife brought the cinder-block and hammer back into the apartment. After two or three hours the evil plaster captor lay in shards on the floor of the bathroom.

She ran me a warm bath, administered both of us a Valium and took the phone off the hook. I soaked for a while, all the while trying to pick the last plaster hangers-ons from my now swollen and abused man-quarters. The bits of plaster clung to every hair like a malnourished suckling Biafran child so finally I gave up and requested a razor. Not to be too descript, but by the time I finished shaving myself I looked more like a five year old boy than I did a man. Such is the price of stupidity.

What is the moral of this story? Hell, I dunno, except to say that if any of you young guys out there are as friggin dumb as I once was, please see a professional, whether it be a professional in sculptured art, or in psychology.

Booth Out